The Slave Market

Marse John got sick and died,
So, now all the tears will be cried.
Families separated and took to the block,
No matter how much the shock.

Faithful Old Bertha and Big Jake,
To the market they did take.
As they went away, we heard 'em cry,
"I'd rather die!"

Old Bertha had been the family cook,
To her breast all the problems were took.
Big Jake was captain of the field hands,
All those that worked the cotton lands.

Big Jake was Old Bertha's son,
But to the auctioneer it didn't matter none.
They brought him to the slave pen,
And told ever'body he had no kin.

Muscular, healthy, and strong,
They did him every wrong.
Stripped naked as the day he was born,
They told how he could plant and raise the corn.

His bulging muscles glistened in the sun,
And his hands were shackled so he couldn't run.
At twenty-five years of age, he was in his very prime.
They poked, prodded, and fondled him for a time.

Then, on the block he did go,
His goods the crowd to show.
A thousand dollars was the opening price,
Planters haggled like rollin' dice.

A sugar cane planter at fifteen hundred won,
Now, Big Jake will be workin' in the hot boilin' sun.
He'll work from sun up to sun down,
And never see the likes of any town.

Old Bertha was taken away,
To be a cook down Texas way.
Her son never to again see,
They said it was just not meant to be.

Another slave family torn apart,
With no regard for the human heart.
One day they say they'll all be free,
In heaven their families to see.

'Til then it's the slavery call,
Work, work, work 'til you fall.
Cryin' 'til the heart breaks in two,
'Cause there is nothin' else you can do!

Bobby McDonald

(This poem first appeared in "Out of the Darkness.....The Black Face of Hopkins County.")